Green With A Silver Lining
by Nike R A
Summary: This is the story of Walburga Black, because there is always a story behind insanity. A Black by birth, a Black by marriage; follow Walburga's life from a childhood of being raised by a family obsessed with blood purity, to her final years at Grimmauld Place when everyone she ever loved is gone. There is so much more to Walburga Black than a screaming portrait.
1. Prologue

_I own none of the recognizable characters, places and ideas. All feedback is appreciated. This is my first multi-chapter fanfiction and Harry Potter Unisverse fanfiction that I am choosing to publish. We'll see how it goes. Hope you enjoy!_

 ** _Prologue_**

Toujours Pur. Those were the two words that followed her all throughout her life. The words that her mother cooed to her when she was young. The words that she lived by when she attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and upheld by being sorted into Slytherin and associating with the 'right' people. The words that pushed her into her marriage to her younger second cousin, but by then her mind was already so consumed by the constant mantra that it didn't even matter. Anything to keep the bloodline pure.

The words that she tried so hard to ingrain into her children, to the point that she felt more of a regulator than she ever did a Mother. The words that had burned themselves so permanently in her mind that they turned her against her son, her brother, and her niece. She had no qualms about blasting them off of the family tree in a fit of madness the moment she caught wind that they had defied the motto.

The words that she cursed in those last few, lonely years, as she felt her sanity and beauty leave her and could only stare in the shattered mirror at the broken shell of a woman that she no longer recognized, and cry. Toujours Pur indeed.

Those words had been her life. She had revered them, even worshipped them, but in the end, when she was left with nothing but a dead family, an empty house, haunting memories and a broken legacy, Walburga Black hated them.


	2. Chapter 1

_So here is Chapter 1 of Walburga's life. Yes, I know that it's not the most exciting thing ever, seeing that she's very young, but I tried to make it as good as I could. Hope you enjoy. All feedback is highly appreciated. So I have been doing a lot of research into the Black family for this fanfiction, and that includes studying the family tree. I did notice that on the family tree made by J.K. Rowling (who owns all of this; I am just an admirer who writes stories about her world for fun) Pollux, Walburga's father, appears to be 13 years old at the time that she is born, and Cygnus, Walburga's brother, also appears to be 13 years old at the time that his oldest daughter Bellatrix is born. I am not sure if Rowling intended it to be that way or if it was an error, but for the purpose of this story I am going to use it._

 _ **Chapter 1**_

Walburga had always felt the pressure to be a good Black. With the scandal that was her birth, being the child of third year Pollux Black and fifth year Irma Crabbe, there had always been an unspoken need for her to prove herself. To prove herself as something more than the product of a thoughtless, lustful night shared between two young Slytherin students.

To prove herself as worthy of the Black name, a name given to her shortly after her birth when, after the initial shock of it all wore off, it was decided upon that despite the circumstance, Pollux had upheld the Black family motto, Toujours Pur. And so Pollux and Irma were wedded on paper and Walburga was added on to the family tree of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

It was a rather hushed up affair, one of the many that clouded the history of the Black family. When it became known that Irma, now carrying the surname Black, was permanently dropping out of school to care for her infant daughter, it was speculated by the general public that it had been an arranged marriage and a fine example of how insanely obsessed the old Pureblood families were with procreating Pureblood heirs.

Though that was a far cry from what had actually happened, the Black family said nothing, partly because they would never want to admit to keeping careful tabs on all the gossip in the wizarding world -even if it came from the mouths of Mudbloods- and partly because the truth was just much worse, at least in their opinion.

Needless to say, Walburga saw very little of her father in the first few years of her life, namely because he was always at Hogwarts, finishing the remaining four years of education he had left. She really didn't remember much from those early years, only some brief memories of hectic screaming as an exasperated Irma tried several methods -some of which were more than questionable- to keep her extremely energetic and vocal daughter calm. Much of those first years of Walburga's life were spent at Crabbe Manor, where Irma's mother, Alarice, was Lady of the House.

Though Alarice Crabbe was an intimidating woman, it wasn't a particular family quality, like the dark and cold beauty that seemed to shroud all the members of the Black family, but more of an air that Alarice and only Alarice herself possessed. While Irma herself was more sensitive, Alarice was a no-nonsense woman who always saw things for exactly what they were. Looking back, Walburga was sure that her grandmother would have made an excellent Black.

Though Alarice was the mother of three, Irma being the youngest by far, she wasn't particularly gifted at being a caretaker. Nonetheless, her emotional stability proved to be useful at the times when Irma had nervous breakdowns, and from the start Walburga had grown to rely on her grandmother as the rock of her life, a role that Irma was just not capable of fulfilling (and never would be).

For the first four year of Walburga's life, Irma, Alarice, and Crabbe Manor had been all she knew. Every Christmas and summer, Irma would take her to Black Manor, where she was constantly thrust into the arms of a young man who everyone told her was her "fa-ther" (not that Walburga understood the meaning of the word at the time) but otherwise largely ignored by said "fa-ther" and the rest of the people there (who Walburga did not recognize as family yet). However, those twice-a-year events played no significant role in Walburga's life, and in her young mind she assumed that they never would. Until the day came that Pollux Black graduated from Hogwarts

"Toujours Pur", her mother whispered in her ear as they prepared to depart Crabbe Manor, this time with no intentions of returning other than for perhaps a short visit. "Toujours Pur".

Walburga looked up at her mother in confusion, small brow crinkling. "Toujours Pur?" she repeated, botching the French pronunciation but saying it clearly enough that it was recognizable. It was the first of many, many times that those words left Walburga's lips.

Irma nodded. The moment didn't last long, seeing that Walburga got distracted easily enough being the small child that she was, and it caused her to altogether miss the following interaction between her mother and grandmother. Alarice, who had been standing in the doorway and had heard the entire exchange, was wearing an odd expression on her face. Irma caught her eye, begging her mother not to say anything. Alarice just raised an eyebrow.

"Do you fear the House of Black?" she asked in a hushed whisper. Irma remained silent, but her quick, nervous glance at Walburga was enough. Alarice smirked.

"Good," she whispered. "You should be. I never said anything when all this happened, I just let you come home and raise your child without a word. But now I'm warning you. Toujours Pur, the complete and utter madness that comes with it, that I have seen in generations of that family... it will consume you, Irma. It will consume you, and it will also consume your daughter until the only thing in the world that is important to her is that."

"I am proud that my daughter is of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," Irma choked. "And how dare you speak poorly of it; I have heard you yourself speak of blood supremacy countless times. You taught me it!"

"Of course I taught you it; we are Crabbes," Alarice hissed. "I do not question your so called _husband o_ r his family's beliefs. But I do question the fineness of the line that divides belief and _insanity_ in that family."

Irma sputtered, before whipping around and roughly grabbing her trunk of belongings and her daughter's hand, and Disapparating with a definite crack. Walburga was screaming when the two Apparated in front of Black Manor; she had never Side-Along Apparated before (it was indeed highly unrecommended for young children) and she had had no warning; if not for Irma's burst of anger and rash decision, the two would have taken the Floo as always.

Though Irma had dropped out of school before she was due to learn Apparition, she had still learned and taken the test when the turned seventeen, two years ago. Now, she was immensely grateful that she had; it had proved to be a good means of escape form the conversation that she did not want to have. Ironically, it had been Alarice that had pushed her to go and learn Apparition in the first place.

Though it had been a good getaway, Irma was now left standing in front of her in-law's Manor trying desperately to quiet her daughter. Walburga, however, was having none of it. After being pressed hard from all directions to the point that she just couldn't breathe and could only hang onto her mother's arm for dear life, suddenly being dropped back into the normal world where she could breathe and move and think brought with it an onslaught of tears and screams. After first trying to gather her daughter into her arms to soothingly hush her but being pushed away, Irma finally gave in to her frustrations and gave Walburga a soft yet sharp slap across the cheek.

"Be _quiet_ , Walburga Black!" She spat. "I don't need you acting like this in front of your family. _Quiet_ , I said."

Irma drew her wand and pointed it threateningly at her. Though she had never actually done anything with it to the young girl, Walburga seemed to sense the power behind the harmless looking object and immediately fell silent. Irma smiled. "Good girl. Now remember. Toujours Pur," she purred. This time, Walburga didn't repeat it, and only stared at her mother. Irma sighed, and took her daughter's hand, this time much gentler than she had at Crabbe Manor, mere minutes ago. Walburga, however, withdrew her hand with a look of fear.

"Oh, silly, we're not going to Apparate again," Irma cooed, realizing what the problem was. She smiled gently -a real, genuine smile that reached her eyes- and grabbed her daughter's hand again, only to pull back moments later when she felt a sharp shock upon contact with the skin.

It was Walburga's first sign of magic. And it broke Irma's heart.

"I'm sorry," the young, nineteen-year-old witch choked. "Merlin, I'm so sorry." Taking a moment to compose herself, she cleared her throat and pointed to Black Manor, a dark, ominous shadow looming ahead. "Let's go."

Her daughter nodded, and, with a lack of contact that Irma felt keenly, they walked up to the great doors of the Manor together.

Walburga wasn't old enough to notice that Irma was shaking the entire way.


	3. Chapter 2

_Back again with another chapter! All belongs to JK Rowling. Please review; all feedback is appreciated, be it positive or negative._

 ** _Chapter 2_**

Walburga remembered very clearly the day that her uncle, Marius, was blasted off of the family tree. The summer after Pollux graduated, the small family of three had stayed at Black Manor with Pollux's parents and three siblings. There was Aunt Cassiopeia, who had just finished her fourth year at Hogwarts, there was Aunt Dorea, a mere five years older than Walburga, and then there was Marius. _Uncle_ Marius, technically, but Walburga only knew him as such for one short summer.

She had just been coming to terms with the fact that everyone in that Manor was indeed her family. There was her father, an imperious man who really paid Walburga no attention. He rarely seems to talk to Irma either, but when he did it always ended in a cold exchange of rage between the two. Walburga was privy to more of those than she probably should have been, and she sometimes heard her mother crying in a secluded room after the arguments. The sound of those sobs kept ringing in Walburga's ears for the rest of her life.

There was her grandfather, Cygnus Black, who was the epitome of the Black family. He spoke constantly of blood supremacy; it was due to him that the word 'Mudblood' was in Walburga's vocabulary within the first week of her stay at Black Manor. He was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, fair-skinned and had finely chiseled features that he had passed on to all of his children. Pollux, in turn, had passed them on to his daughter, all except the eyes. Walburga had striking grey eyes that were an exact replica of Alarice's, someone who the young girl found herself missing more and more as the summer progressed.

Because Grandmother Violetta Bulstrode Black was nothing like Grandmother Alarice Crabbe. Violetta was, well, something else entirely. She constantly giggled, a high pitched noise that grated at Walburga's nerves whenever she heard it. She was rather plain-looking; limp brown hair with dull brown eyes, and she was never seen without the company of a glass of red wine. Said drink always turned Violetta's cheeks a rosy red after excessive consumption, and it always caused her to giggle all the more. Walburga later learned that Cygnus had been rather pressured into the union, seeing that Violetta had been the only respectable pureblood woman available at the time. It would certainly explain the faint trace of disgust that Walburga saw many times on her grandfather's face as he looked upon his wife. Walburga couldn't help but share the sentiment every single time she ever saw her grandmother.

Aunt Cassiopeia and Aunt Dorea were very similar to their mother, albeit they had inherited the Black look and were therefor somewhat easier on the eye. However, that partially backfired seeing that it caused Cassiopeia to be incredibly vain, and that, coupled with her Violetta-like personality, made her an absolute nightmare.

And finally, Marius. He had always been a scrawny little thing; a nervous, jittery boy whose dark hair and dark eyes against his white skin made him look sickly pale, opposed to the regality that the look brought everyone else in the family. He had turned eleven years old earlier that year, and was set to get his Hogwarts letter that summer. But it never came.

There had been whispers among the family, about how the boy had never showed an ounce of magic in his entire life, but such things were kept quiet and out of earshot of the children. They never took Marius to St Mungo's to receive an official diagnosis, even when there were still no signs at the age of seven. The Black family was too proud for that, and besides, what need was there to cause an upheaval and humiliate themselves only to find that Marius was perhaps a late bloomer.

But he wasn't. He was a Squib, and within the old Pureblood families, being a Squib was just as bad as voluntarily associating with Mudbloods and blood-traitors.

Walburga, of course, being the tender age of four, did not know of that. She had no idea that the Muggle world even existed, and she really did not understand the concept of blood purity, because, even though words such as Mudblood had been picked up from grandfather Cygnus, she did not truly understand the meaning of the word other than "a Mudblood is a bad, evil person not to be associated with". Walburga had never actually seen one of those so-called Mudbloods, but she supposed that she would be able to recognize one if she did happen to see one. After all, there _had_ to be a visual difference between herself, who's blood ran a pure, dark, beautiful red, and a disgusting creature whose blood was mixed with mud, right?

Though Mudblood was not the word that had been hurled at Marius that day, it was very clear to Walburga that everyone else was disgusted with the young boy that stood, shaking, before his family in the parlor. Grandfather Cygnus raged for a while, his sentences very short and to the point. With every word, Marius seemed to shake harder, but nobody seemed to mind. Grandmother Violetta was clutching a glass of wine, staring at her husband and looking for the world as if she might faint.

At a particularly sharp phrase from Cygnus, she gave a soft "oh" and clutched the back of the sofa, though the fact that she never even glanced at her son made it obvious that it wasn't some deeply buried motherly affection that was causing her to act up. Probably stress about how it would all affect her reputation. Cygnus glanced at Violetta a few times during his monologue, his disgust for his son also carrying over to his wife. Later, Walburga would wonder if he blamed her for Marius' condition. After all, the Bulstrodes had never had quite the prestige to their name that the Blacks did.

Aunt Dorea stared on in shock, while Aunt Cassiopeia had a knowing look on her face that told that she had predicted that this would happen. She shot her younger sister a look, an elegant eyebrows raised, as if to say 'I told you so.' Dorea's dark eyes filled with tears, and she mutely shook her head as she watched the scene in front of her unfold.

Pollux and Irma stood side by side towards the back of the room. Pollux had an unreadable expression on his face. Where Cygnus raged and paced, Pollux merely stood tall and silent with the slightest trace of contempt on his face. He had matured very much in the past four years; a while ago he would have been brimming with passion, directed in the form of hate towards his younger brother. But his _blunder_ four years ago had given him something he was determined to overcome; something that he was determined to prove that he was so much more than, something that he wanted to put behind him. And so he became the stoic man that Walburga knew all her life, with no traces of the playboy left that her mother had encountered while still attending Hogwarts.

Irma was gripping Walburga's hand rather tightly, wearing a bemused expression. To an outside observer, it would seem as if she were an aloof lady of the Black family. To anyone that knew her -in that parlor, really only Pollux did, because, despite all their complications, he still _knew_ her- it was quite obvious that she would rather be anywhere else than in the parlor of Black Manor listening to the affairs of the family.

This was certainly not the last time that Walburga saw that expression on her mother's face, but nothing was ever said about it (except perhaps by Pollux, but that was always behind the confines of closed doors where no one could hear his admonishing or her protests and tears) for she did her job well enough.

Though Irma was not one to rant and rave about blood purity, she would instill the words Toujours Pur well into her children. To the eyes of the public, Irma would remain the cold and quiet Lady Black for the rest of her life. It was only when Walburga was much, much older that she would be able to see the desperation and pain in her mother's eyes that always led her to choke out the words, as if they were a meaningless mantra that served the only purpose of keeping her grounded.

Though it was always said to Walburga or one of her brothers as a sort of reminder from their mother, it later seemed more of a reminder to Irma herself of who she was expected to be. In the final years of Walburga's life, when she was left with only memories of all the people in her life, all either gone or beyond her reach, she couldn't help but wonder if Irma had ever actually, really believed in Toujours Pur.

But that day, Irma's whisper of Toujours Pur in her daughter's ear was not born from an emotion of desperate need to give one's self a feeling of purpose. It was an explanation to the look of confusion on Walburga's face when she saw Grandfather Cygnus point his wand at the tapestry of the family tree and heard a loud crack, all of it resulting in a charred black hole between the faces of Aunt Cassiopeia and Aunt Dorea.

The family, with the family tree as it's visual representation, was not an ever-changing unit, with members coming and going at a whim. Or that was as Walburga understood it. But now, as she watched her grandfather roughly drag the openly crying Marius to the door, she did not know what to think of the word "family" anymore.

Though the words Toujours Pur did not exactly explain it all, as she did not entirely know what it meant, it did tell her that there was something _wrong_ with Marius, something that was a way that it shouldn't be. And that was enough for Walburga.

She did not understand that her uncle, a mere eleven year old child, was going to be thrown out onto the streets, exiled from his family. Walburga only saw the scrawny boy that she had never really liked, and felt satisfaction at the idea of never having to see him again. Because, though she had no clear comprehension of how horrible the situation was for Marius, she just knew in her gut that she would never see her uncle ever again.

There was no particular _reason_ for the venom that Walburga had always felt towards Marius; it was merely an unexplainable, childish dislike that stemmed purely from the fact that he had always been different.

Over the years, that childish dislike directed at people that were different would grow and fester into a fearsome, all-consuming hate.


	4. Chapter 3

_All known characters and places belong to the one and only JK Rowling. I would love to know what everyone thinks of this fanfic. Is it any good? Should I continue it? Anything you would specifically like to see happen? I hope you enjoy._

 _ **Chapter 3**_

It wasn't ever cleared with Walburga. Nobody asked her opinion, and nobody told her why. There wasn't ever a day where everyone sat down together to talk, at least not a discussion that included the four year old. While in all reality, it was perfectly reasonable for the adults to make plans and just bring Walburga along, she didn't see it as such. She just got sat down one day and informed by Pollux that the family of three would be leaving Black Manor in two weeks and moving to the newly purchased Black Residence.

Her father gave no explanation, and though any explanation that he theoretically _could_ have given would have been completely over her head (Pollux was never one to simplify things down, even when speaking to his daughter) and any "opinion" of hers that she _could_ have voiced would have been a simple, childish 'but I don't want to', Walburga still felt completely unjustified. But she knew better than to press Pollux for more information, and she knew better than to start whining to him. So instead she held her tongue, found her mother, and promptly began sulking to Irma.

"You said this is our family."

"Yes, they are, dear. But it's time for us to leave and have our own house, just like your grandfather and grandmother have their house with their children."

Walburga wrinkled her nose in confusion. "But Father is Grandfather Cygnus and Grandmother Violetta's child, isn't he?"

"Well, yes, he is," Irma acknowledged. "But your father is all grown up. And when children grow up, their parents have to let them go, so they can move into their own house and have their own family."

"But we lived with Grandmother Alarice."

"That was different," said Irma shortly. "Now go to your room." Walburga nodded, and Irma watched her daughter's small form retreat, open the door, quietly slip out, black hair flowing behind her, and when Walburga shut it behind her soundlessly, Irma finally let out a sigh. Walburga didn't understand just how young her mother was. She didn't understand that Mother hadn't _been_ grown up when they had stayed with Grandmother Alarice.

Irma rubbed her stomach, tears welling in her eyes. Tears that she told herself constantly were unfitting of a Crabbe, unfitting of a _Black,_ but they still came, and fell, time and time again. She had only been fifteen when she had Walburga, and now she was nineteen. Still young. So, so young. She had been hoping that nothing would happen while they stayed at Black Manor, but years of being locked up in a house with her mother and infant daughter had been hard. Same way that those last years of school, trying to play the part of a perfect Pureblood Heir and prove to everyone that he was worthy had been hard on Pollux.

They had both changed in the last four years. Yes, they had briefly seen each other during breaks, but it was only for a day each time, and it wasn't as much 'see each other' as it was 'be in the same room with a lot of other people.' When they really first truly _saw_ each other, for the first time in four years, it had been quite a shock. Pollux was no longer the laughing, flirtatious charmer, and Irma was no longer the sweet and carefree schoolgirl. They had both grown up, and their new adult selves had a lot harder time coexisting than their teenage selves ever had.

Still, between the pressure that Pollux still felt from his family (now only intensified that Irma and Walburga were at Black Manor; he felt as if everyone was scrutinizing them) and the unease and unhappiness that Irma had felt ever since leaving Crabbe Manor and coming to live with her in-laws, the two always found their way back to each other. 'Old habits die hard', thought Irma bitterly.

It always followed one of their evening arguments, which could range from a biting, cold silence to a heated fight with sharp words. The ensuing night spent together was by no means loving or caring; no, it released pent up frustration, forcing it on to the other person, because both of them blamed the other for their pain, and wanted them to see it, to hear it, to _feel_ it. In the morning, however, they still argued, because it was never enough, never could be, even if it had felt so the night before as they both drifted off to sleep, exhausted.

And so they fought, leaving them feeling drained by the end, even though it was still morning. More often than not, those mornings were the cause of Irma's tears.

Yet the vicious cycle kept repeating itself. Though mentally, they had aged what felt like decades in the past four years, their bodies were in their prime and there was no denying the differences they each noted in the other that were so much more appealing and perfect than their teenage bodies had been. Sometimes, it was those encounters with Pollux that reminded Irma that she was still a functioning human. Other times, she wasn't even sure if that was a good thing.

'Still functioning,' Irma thought to herself as she kept rubbing her stomach. She didn't even know what to think. When she had told Pollux, she had hoped that he would say something, that he would think _for_ her. Instead, he had looked at her with a seeming aloofness that just screamed "Black", and in that moment Irma had hated him, hated his family, hated their daughter, and hated their unborn child. Later, she only hated herself.

...

The last two weeks at Black Manor went by very quickly for everyone. Walburga could sense that things were even more strained between her parents, but she attributed it to the impending move. She has noticed early on that when things were about to change, the adults around her got extremely agitated. They were more likely to argue with each other, and less likely to spend time with Walburga and actually pay attention to her. In all honesty, she really did not mind leaving Grandmother Violetta, Aunt Cassiopeia, and Aunt Dorea.

The person that she would miss was Grandfather Cygnus. Unlike the others, he seemed to pay the young girl even more attention during the weeks leading up to Pollux, Irma and Walburga's departure. Though "attention" did not mean "entertainment", at least when it came to her grandfather, even from a young age Walburga had found his lectures interesting.

Cygnus would rant on and on about Toujours Pur, Mudbloods, the Ministry and society as a whole. When he spoke, his voice would rise and fall passionately, and his dark eyes got a glow that was as entrancing as it was eery. While Walburga was too young to understand what he was really talking about, she found herself captivated by his mere presence. As she got older, it was the meaning behind the words that enthralled her.

Walburga found herself wishing that it was Grandfather Cygnus coming with them instead of Father. She still did not quite know what to make of the man, but being shut in a house with only him (other than her mother of course) did not sound appealing at all.

Even as a young four year old, she found herself able to just listen to Cygnus for hours on end, even though overall she wasn't a very subdued child. Attentive, yes, and able to discern things from a surprisingly young age, but never calm. Her temper was quick to flair, though she did have enough sense to know when to stop. When it came down to basic things -'Walburga, do try to be quieter,' 'Walburga, it's time to get yourself cleaned up for dinner,' 'Walburga, go in your room and entertain yourself'- she pouted all she wanted, but when the adults got _the look_ , she knew to back down. The look Pollux had worn when he told her that they would leave Black Manor, and the look Irma had had when Walburga had been pestering her about why they were leaving Pollux's parents while they had lived with Alarice for years.

...

The entire family went to see Aunt Cassiopeia off at the train station, one day before Pollux would take his small family to Black Residence. It was the start of Cassiopeia's fifth year at Hogwarts, and she was terribly proud of the badge that had come in the mail a few weeks prior. Now, it gleaned proudly on her chest, a shimmering green with a silver snake and a word that Walburga could not read. Truly, she did not understand the huge fuss about the tiny little thing, but everyone, especially Grandmother Violetta, had seemed awfully pleased.

There was, however, a solemn undertone to the mood of the family that morning. It wasn't ever said out loud, but everyone knew that Marius should have been getting on that train for the first time with his sister. Walburga was the only one that didn't think of this. True, she still thought of the Family Tree incident quite often -seeing the black burn on the tapestry in the parlor nearly every day tended to bring back the memories- but she still could not put two and two together to understand that his lack of magic, which was the reason he could not attend Hogwarts, was the reason that he was disowned. Instead, Walburga found herself mesmerized by Platform 9 3/4; all those people bustling about, children laughing, owls hooting, the whistle of the scarlet steam engine...

She turned to Irma all of a sudden. "I want to go."

Her mother laughed gently, and told her that her time would come and that she simply needed to have patience. However, as they watched the train chug away, Cassiopeia on board, Irma also had a wistful look on her face.

It was once the train was gone that a tall man with white-blond hair approached Cygnus. The two clasped hands and began speaking in hushed tones. Walburga couldn't make out what was being said, but she saw her grandfather's face cloud over when the other man said something.

"I have one son," Cygnus said sharply so that everyone could hear, and he gestured to Pollux. The man with white-blond hair glanced over at Pollux, a small smirk playing on his lips. Pollux met his eyes with a cold, calculating glare.

"And I suppose that that is your granddaughter," the man said, breaking eye contact with Pollux and glancing down at Walburga, who tried to imitate her father and did her best not to waver under his stare.

Cygnus gave a short nod. "Yes, that is Walburga. And this is my daughter-in-law, Irma Black," he said, making a point to introduce the young woman as one of his family.

"Of course," the man said, though the sneer was wasn't entirely gone. He glanced at Irma quickly, then back down at Walburga for a few seconds before finally looking away. Walburga let out a silent sigh; she had been getting highly uncomfortable and just wanted the man with the white-blond hair to go away.

However, instead of showing any intentions of leaving, he beckoned to a woman and a little boy, who were standing a bit to the side. "I do not believe that you have met my youngest," he said as the two approached. "This is Abraxas Malfoy. I do believe that Walburga and him will be in the same year at Hogwarts."

Now that the boy, apparently called Abraxas, was standing right in front of her next to his father, Walburga got her first real good look at him. He had the same white-blond hair as his father, and even the way he held himself resembled the man, though it really looked quite ridiculous on the small boy- puffed out chest, head held high and even the sneer; Walburga couldn't help but quietly snicker.

None of the adults noticed; Violetta, Irma and Abraxas' mother were having a light, polite chat while Dorea stood off to the side, and the three men were also conversing, though their exchange appeared a lot more tense. All of that was going on more than two feet above Walburga's head; the only other person at her level, and therefore the only other person that saw, was Abraxas himself.

The scowl that formed on his face told her that he did not appreciate being mocked, but Walburga found that she did not care. She had already decided that she did not like his father, and was quickly coming to the conclusion that she did not like Abraxas very much either. It would appear that she simply did not like the Malfoys.

...

It was two months after moving into Black Residence that Walburga's life was flipped upside down with a shocking bit of news. She had been getting used to her new home; it was not as big as Black Manor, or Crabbe Manor either, but it was fine enough with a beautiful yard to play in.

Truthfully, her least favorite part of the day was meals. During the day, Pollux would shut himself up in his study, and Irma would be with Walburga, unless she was too agitated to spend time with her daughter (either because of frustrations caused by Walburga herself or a fight with her husband) and she shut herself up in her room, leaving Walburga to her own devices for the day.

The House Elf, Lossy, was simply too old to keep up with the energetic girl (though not for the lack of trying) at the times when "Mistress Irma" was "taking a break", as the Elf always explained to Walburga in its croaky voice, right before the girl ran off and poor Lossy was left desperately trying to find her "Young Mistress".

At meal times, however, the entire family came inside or out of whatever room they had locked themselves in. It was horribly awkward and silent, with just the three of them, and Walburga hated it.

But she hated it even more when she found out that soon, there wouldn't be three of them around the table anymore. There would be four.


	5. Chapter 4

_Thank you for all the feedback; I'd love to hear even more, be it positive or negative! All belongs to JK Rowling. Enjoy!_

 ** _Chapter 4_**

Somehow, Walburga had never even thought of the possibility of a sibling until she was told that she was going to get one. She really should have known, considering that she had spent entire summer at Black Manor with Grandfather Cygnus and Grandmother Violetta, who had four children.

And she really should have been looking forward to it, considering that it would give her a playmate and someone else in Black Residence that wasn't Father, Mother, or the House Elf.

But she hadn't known; no it was a complete shock to her, and no, she most definitely was not looking forward to the arrival of the baby.

What if it was a boy, and he ended up like Marius; a scrawny little thing that really did nothing other than shake and sob as Grandfather Cygnus blasted him off of the family tree?

Or what if it was a girl, and acted just like Grandmother Violetta or Aunt Cassiopeia or Aunt Dorea; all annoying high-pitched giggles and constant preening?

Still, it was only a mild dislike that Walburga felt towards the baby in the beginning, and even that was just about the IDEA of the baby, not the child itself. It was only when it began changing her mother that the hate kicked in, and it was directed right AT her unborn sibling.

As the months wore on, the pregnancy began to take its toll on Irma. She became more and more apt to locking herself away during the day. No one was really sure what she did all day. There was never a sound from her room, and she still came out for meals every day, dry-eyed, though always with a far-away look.

Whenever Pollux tried speaking to her, she always ignored him and sharply turned her back. Whenever Walburga wanted to speak to her, Irma always quietly asked her to leave and not be a bother.

Both Pollux and Walburga did their best to appease her (Pollux did so purely out of a sense of obligation, and Walburga did so after getting called into her father's study one afternoon to have a very stern and very one-sided conversation about the importance of not bothering her mother), and for a while, there was a odd sort of atmosphere around the house; it resembled peace, but it was also tense, as if waiting for who would snap first.

It was Irma.

It happened a month after she altogether stopped coming out for meals (leaving Pollux and Walburga to dine with each other in silence) and two weeks after she stopped accepting most of the food that Lossy delivered to her room.

It was then that Pollux decided to try and coax some food into his wife. It was just a small tray of food, and he really hadn't been planning on engaging in conversation. It was only when he knocked, received no answer, forced the door open and he saw Irma that he decided to try and talk some sense into her. While Irma's stomach and breasts got bigger, nearly every other part of her was shrinking. Her arms and legs became alarmingly skinny, and her face began to look gaunt and worn.

No one had seen her in the past few weeks; though Lossy dutifully brought food everyday and knocked on the door, she dared not do anymore when there was no answer. He would definitely have to have a word with that old and useless House Elf, Pollux decided.

Unbeknownst to him, Walburga had followed him upstairs and was standing just outside the door. Though she did not dare poke her head around the corner to look, there wasn't even a need. She heard everything just as well we she would have seen it.

It started rather quietly; only her father spoke, and it was in a hushed tone, as if he was begging. Walburga picked up a lot of mentions of the baby, and of eating, and of her. It was only several minutes later, when Irma's voice rang out, hoarse from misuse yet still loud, that the little girl could hear every word. Accusations, threats, pleas and tears, all hurled at Pollux.

It wasn't the first fight between her parents that Walburga had ever heard. It wasn't the first time that she heard her mother cry. But there was something different about this time, Walburga could feel it. Her father wasn't fighting back, as he usually did, meeting scream with scream, insult with insult, rage with rage. Instead, he was muttering her mother's name, over and over and over again, as if it were a prayer.

" _Irma_ "

Walburga heard her mother's voice crack from the strain, unable to handle the the pressure after weeks of silence.

" _Irma_ "

That was when she heard the _laughter_ ; that horrible, joyless, guttural sound that her mother emitted, only filled with spite and pain.

" _Irma_ "

Most said that madness ran in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. They weren't wrong, Walburga would acknowledge in the end, but the insanity that marred the final few generations of Blacks; this was the stem of it.

" _Irma_ "

It was only then that Walburga worked up the courage to look inside the room, just in time to see Pollux attempt to approach Irma.

" _Irma_ "

There was a resounding _slap_.

" _Irma_ "

It hardly did anything. Irma had no strength after a month of being shut up in her room, and Pollux was a strong man.

" _Irma_ "

Still, he backed away, even as she approached the fire place with a handful of glittering powder.

" _Irma_ "

With a choked cry of " _Crabbe Manor_!", Walburga watched her mother disappear in a haze of emerald flames.

" _Irma_ "

The silence that followed was deafening. Pollux swept out of the room, black hair flying, black robes billowing, black eyes snapping. He paid no attention to his daughter, who was at that point openly standing in the doorway.

For the rest of that day, Pollux shut himself up in his study, and Walburga ate dinner alone.

...

"Where is Mother?"

Walburga already knew the answer. But she still asked. Silence.

"Why did she leave?"

She had her ideas, but she still wanted to hear it from Pollux. She did not get that satisfaction. Silence.

"When is she coming back?"

She did not know the answer to that. And if her father did, he didn't say. Silence, again.

"Can I go see her?"

"Maybe," Pollux finally said. "I'll write and ask."

It was three days later that he spoke to her again. "She said no."

That was all her father was willing to say to her at all. Her mother didn't want to see her.

It hurt.

...

Pollux forgot about her birthday that spring. The only reason that she even knew it was her birthday was because of the owl that came.

When she saw that it was the one from Crabbe Manor, Walburga felt her heart rise. There were sweets, some picture books, and a letter in the package. She couldn't read yet, so she made Lossy read the letter to her.

She didn't really pay attention to what the letter itself said. She was only listening for the end.

" _Love, Grandmother Alarice_."

Walburga took the letter from the House Elf and ripped it up. She later regretted it. Even later, she wondered what it had said.

...

It was four days after her fifth birthday that her brother was born. Pollux and Walburga took the Floo to St. Mungo's, where they were escorted through the white hallways to a small waiting room, with an even smaller room attached to it.

Alarice was sitting in the waiting room; Pollux gave her a respectful nod, to which the older witch only pursed her lips before hugging Walburga tightly.

The next few hours were a blur to the young girl. She remembered a young Mediwitch coming out of the small room, and kindly ushering Pollux inside.

She did not know that it had been nearly three months since Pollux and Irma last saw each other.

Still, Pollux went inside, and it was hours before he came back out again. Those hours were spent with Alarice (Walburga had dearly missed her grandmother; it was almost a year since she had left Crabbe Manor) talking, sitting in silence, and, at least on Walburga's part, dozing off a few times.

When Pollux came out again, there was the sound of crying in the background. Though she had never heard one cry before, Walburga automatically knew that it was a baby. She looked up at Alarice uncertainly, but her grandmother only gave her a gentle nudge towards the room, and the two walked in together.

Seeing her mother, seeing her smile, hearing Alarice laugh, seeing her brother, hearing him cry; it was all a blur to Walburga that finally cleared out when she was holding Alphard in her arms.

The only thought that she could really muster was that he looked just like Marius must have looked like when he was a baby. Small and scrawny with sickly looking white skin, made even more pale by the shock of black hair.

It was only when Alphard opened is eyes that a wave of relief washed through Walburga.

Eyes that were a stormy grey, same as Alarice's, same as hers. Yes, this was _her_ brother, and he was going to be nothing like Marius, of that she would make sure.


	6. Chapter 5

**__Chapter 5__**

Alphard grew at a faster rate than Walburga could ever imagine herself growing at, despite what Irma told her.

"You went from being a little baby, as your brother is now, to how you are today in no time," Irma reassured her. She only made a face and glanced at Alphard, who was sucking his thumb and happily cooing. No, Walburga decided, she hadn't ever been _that_ small. And she most certainly had never cried at every little whim, nor had she wet herself at the alarmingly constant rate that Alphard did.

When she voiced those opinions to Alarice, her grandmother merely arched an elegant eyebrow before saying, "then tell me of your first day."

Walburga scrunched up her face, thinking. "It was a long time ago," she finally said, imitating what her mother said on the few occasions that she asked her questions about Irma's childhood. "Can't remember."

"Well, I do happen to remember your first day. And let me assure you that you were just as small as your brother. You cried just as much -perhaps even more- and I remember holding you, trying to soothe you, but that made you cry all the more. You were a stubborn one," Alarice smiled gently, "and you still are," she added when she caught her granddaughter's skeptical look.

There was no need to tell the little girl of how her mother had refused to hold her for a week after her birth, opting to curse her lover-turned-husband. There was no need to tell her that her father hadn't even been there for the birth. There was no need to tell her of the first year of her life, where Irma cried nearly as much as her infant daughter did. There was no need to tell her that at first, Alarice herself was more of a mother to Walburga than Irma was.

No, there most certainly was no need. It was alright to let the little girl believe that her childhood was relatively peaceful, just as Alphard's was. Irma was faring quite well; the months spent with Alarice before her son was born had done her good, and she had fallen into the habit regularly visiting Crabbe Manor to see her mother, usually bringing Walburga and Alphard along with her. Even Pollux was making an effort to piece together his shattered relationship with Irma and to get to know his children.

To Walburga, it seemed as if things were finally fixing themselves.

It was a slow process, needless to say; after five years of a cold barrier, caused either by physical or mental distance, it was hard for Pollux and Walburga to accept each other. To Pollux, finally seeing the child that looked so much like him -such a beautiful little girl- and full of so much of energy and will... this was his daughter. _His_ daughter; the overwhelming realization left him in shock, soon to be followed by a numb sensation that he recognized as guilt.

Where had it gone wrong? Why was it that his own daughter didn't know him, and only stared at him in surprise, surprised at the fact that her father was actually talking to her, instead of treating her with the cold indifference that she had grown so accustomed to?

If he were a better man, Pollux would have apologized, he would have admitted that it was him, always him, and never her. He would have gathered his daughter into his arms, and promised to protect her, to always be there, to never leave again.

But he didn't.

Instead, he spoke of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, of blood supremacy, of Mudbloods, of blood traitors.

" _Coward_ ," a voice in his mind hissed. It sounded suspiciously like Irma's.

To Walburga, it just sounded like one of Grandfather Cygnus' lectures. She had always liked them, and so she listened. She was still in shock over the fact that her father -the cold, imposing man that she had always thought hated her- was actually speaking to her, but the more he did so, the more she grew used to it and eventually looked forward to it. He wasn't as openly passionate as her grandfather was about it all, but it was still there in his eyes.

The deep, dark, black pits that suddenly didn't seem so bottomless anymore, as they came to life and snapped and crackled with every word that Pollux spoke.

Walburga thought it was passion.

In reality, it was guilt.

" _Coward_."

Irma never actually uttered those words. But when Walburga came to her, softly murmuring "Toujours Pur", Irma knew immediately where her daughter had heard it. It had been said to her on several occasions, but it was only when it was fresh in her mind that Walburga repeated the motto.

If Irma were a better mother, she would have quietly whispered in Walburga's ear, assuring her that while it was in her family, in her very blood, Toujours Pur did not define her. She would have held her tight and her promised that she didn't need to worry about what her father said, that all she needed to worry her young head with was thoughts of what she should play the next day, of what imaginary world she should explore in her dreams, of what fantasy she should act out next.

She didn't.

Instead, she nodded and repeated it, "Toujours Pur," and said no more. She could barley even recognize her own voice.

" _Coward_ ," a voice whispered in her ear. It was Alarice's, but Irma pushed it aside and went back to cradling Alphard.

The next time she saw Pollux, as they laid down together in bed, he was watching her intently, as if expecting her to say something. However, there was silence, and she merely rolled closer to him, finally placing a soft, chaste kiss on his lips.

He immediately leaned in, hands groping her waste, but Irma pulled back, shaking her head. Pollux fell still, and made no motion or noise as Irma scooted over to him again, softly capturing his mouth in another kiss.

"Toujours Pur," she suddenly whispered against his lips. This time, it was he who pulled back, black eyes unreadable. Irma's first thought was that he was going to be triumphant, but as she gazed into those dark and altogether captivating pits of his soul, she suddenly doubted that.

He looked lost, and Irma felt that feeling being echoed by her soul.

This time, she didn't stop him as he rolled on top of her.

...

Little did the couple know that in another part of Black Residence, Walburga had left her room and padded over to Alphard's nursery. There really wasn't anyone to keep her from doing so. Her parents always retired to their room and didn't come out until morning, and Lossy was too old and worn out to be up late (unless somebody called for her, of course.)

Walburga was free to do as she pleased, and though she usually opted to sleep after a long day of running about, she still payed many late-night visits to Alphard. It was just so calming, to watch the baby sleep peacefully, to listen to his steady breathing, to smell his sweet scent.

He was still small and thin, abnormally so, but he was beautiful in his own way. Perfect.

This was the first time that Walburga was in love.

She leaned over him, lips almost brushing the black tuft of hair. "Toujours Pur," she murmured softly. She didn't even know what it meant. Not really. But Grandfather Cygnus, Mother, and even Father -now that he was speaking to her- always said it.

She wondered if Father had said it to Alphard, too. Though it was hard for Pollux to rebuild his relationship with his wife and daughter, it was a fresh start when it came to his son. He still spent much time in his study, but Walburga saw those times -during naps, after meals, before bed- that Pollux would silently beckon to Irma, asking for Alphard.

Irma said nothing, and only handed the baby over to its father. From what Walburga could tell, Pollux merely held Alphard and gazed at him, nothing more, but still, she knew that _Toujours Pur_ was something important. Something that she had to know.

Something that Marius hadn't.

And she would make sure that her brother did.

Alphard stirred.

Walburga stilled, then slowly began to back away, even as he began lightly fussing.

It would be so easy just to leave.

To go back to her bed, shut out her brother's cries, and sleep. To let him fight his own terrors at night -whatever that meant to an infant- knowing that come morning, he would be just fine.

She shook her head clear of those thoughts and ran back to Alphard's crib, scooping his little body up in her arms. It was the one thing that her mother didn't want her doing without supervision, but Irma didn't need to know. Alphard immediately quieted, and Walburga felt a sense of pride.

Silence.

She never liked tense silence that was filled with hate and the empty silence of being ignored, or, later, the deafening silence of being alone and the cold, hard silence that signified death.

But this, this was a different kind of silence, and Walburga wished that it would last forever.

The moment was broken when her arms began to ache with the light weight of her brother, and she was forced to set his sleeping form back in the crib.

Walburga watched Alphard for a bit longer, but soon, she tired, she grew bored, she became cold, and so she left the nursery and headed back down the hallway to her own room.

The house was dark and silent, made even more eery by the decor -consisting of silver serpent heads, dark statues and old furniture- that surrounded Walburga from every angle.

Not that it bothered her. After living in Crabbe Manor, followed by Black Manor and finally moving to Black Residence, she was used to it.

It was home. Besides, there was something captivating about the little silver serpents with glittering green eyes. She spotted them again, that next Christmas, when the family went to Black Manor for a week. Walburga had never payed much attention to her Grandmother Violetta's jewelry before (usually it was quite atrocious) but the silver serpent necklace and earrings, complete with tiny studded emeralds, caught her eye.

She didn't say anything to Violetta, who was clutching a glass of wine and laughing loudly at one thing or another Irma had said (who looked alarmed and was noticeably trying to put distance between herself and her mother-in-law) and Walburga knew that if she did approach her grandmother, the woman would just try to pinch her cheeks or stroke her hair while exclaiming loudly how much she had grown.

Instead, Walburga mentioned the jewelry to Grandfather Cygnus the next day, and, though he told her she was much too young when she stated that she wanted her own set, he looked pleased nonetheless.


	7. Chapter 6

_Everything belongs to JK Rowling. Please review!_

 ** _Chapter 6_**

This time, there was no tension and muttering in the family. Dorea got her letter that summer just like everyone knew she would.

This time, there was no scrawny, shaking, crying child. Dorea stood proud and tall, even at the train station, just as a Black should.

This time, there was no humiliation. There was only pride when Dorea's letter arrived from Hogwarts, announcing that she had been sorted into Slytherin House.

Irma relayed that last bit of information over the breakfast table one morning, glancing up to see Pollux absently nodding. "She was always a bit softer, but she's pure at the core," he murmured.

"Aunt Dorea went away?" Walburga asked, the 'children are not to speak until spoken to' rule completely forgotten. Irma, however, didn't seem to register that, and answered immediately.

"Yes, she went to Hogwarts, where your Aunt Cassiopeia goes."

"Ah, Cassiopeia is still sore that that filthy Gryffindor became Head Girl and not her," Pollux muttered.

"What's a Gryffindor?" Walburga inquired brightly.

Pollux regarded her with a bemused expression. "I'm sure your Grandfather Cygnus has told you all about the House of Slytherin."

Walburga nodded eagerly. It was one of the only things she knew of the mysterious place called Hogwarts. Slytherin; the house of the silver serpent, the house of honor, the house of the Blacks.

"Well, there are _other_ houses," her father continued, "filled with traitors and Mudbloods and half-breeds. Houses that seek to dishonor Slytherin, and stand against all the values that we have held dear for centuries."

"Pollux," Irma said sharply. She then lowered her voice so only her husband could hear. "It is one thing to teach her pride, and another to teach her malice." Then louder, "and don't forget that my mother was a Ravenclaw herself."

"Grandmother Alarice was not in Slytherin?" Walburga whispered, eyes wide.

"The Ravenclaws are wise," Irma said quickly. "Not foolhardy hotheads like the Gryffindors or naive idiots like the Hufflepuffs. Though the values in most of the houses have shifted to something, well, _lesser_ , it would do good to remember that cunningness and ambition itself is not enough to get you through life. Courage, wisdom, and loyalty... they will all serve you well."

Pollux said nothing, either to agree with or dispute his wife, but his cynical stare gave a good idea of what he thought if the value of ambition were pitted against the value of loyalty. Sensing this, Irma added rather sharply, "loyalty has different forms."

She was turned towards Walburga; in the girl's mind, this was still a conversation revolving around her. A conversation in which her parents explained things to her, a conversation in which they both agreed and were now teaching their daughter together.

Irma, however, could feel Pollux's dark eyes boring into her head, and she felt the warning and the challenge that stretched far beyond a simple discussion intended to clear some things up for a six-year-old child.

"There is the loyalty that holds you back you back from greatness," Irma continued evenly. "And there is the loyalty that leads you to greatness. Loyalty to our beliefs, to our family, to the House of Black. Loyalty to _Toujours Pur_."

Pollux relaxed, Walburga nodded, and Alphard cooed.

She had played her part well.

Irma, Lady of the House of Black, had spoken.

...

Suddenly, to Walburga, Hogwarts did not feel like such a far-away prospect anymore.

Aunt Dorea, a mere five years older, was there after all. Mother, and sometimes Father, too, were talking about it more and more; first about the houses, then brief mentions of the castle, the classes, the teachers, and then later the magic as Walburga went on to demonstrate more and more accidental uses of it.

At the heart of it all stood Slytherin House; green with the silver serpent that had always mesmerized her, the beliefs that she had had repeated to her all her life, the people that were proper to associate with.

And it made so much sense.

All of the other houses that were filled with monsters whose blood ran with mud. Why should she want to associate with them, when their blood was not red like hers, not pure like hers? They weren't normal. There was something wrong.

How could people like that attend a school for the most sacred art of magic? They clearly did not belong.

It was only a few years later that Walburga learned exactly what it meant to be a Mudblood; that it has to do with birth, your family, and your parents. Still, the subconscious, mental image of blood intermingled with mud did not leave her mind until she was much, much older, and saw, for the first time, the blood of a Mudblood pooled on the ground.

It was red, but still, she did not, and never would, believe that it was pure.

...

"Why weren't you in Slytherin?" Walburga asked the next time she saw Alarice.

"Because that's not where the Sorting Hat put me," her grandmother said simply (followed by a brief explanation of what exactly she meant " _I don't believe that it actually sings!_ " _You'll see for yourself then_.")

"Were you sad that you weren't in Slytherin?" Walburga rephrased the question, to which Alarice raised an eyebrow. "Why should I be? Why should I be ashamed that the hat saw wisdom over blind ambition? Ambition alone won't get you anywhere. You can aspire all you want but if you don't know how to go about it, you will only achieve failure."

"But Mother and Father and Grandfather Cygnus and Grandmother Violetta and Aunt Cassiopeia and Aunt Dorea were all in Slytherin."

"I never said anything against Slytherin House or any of its members. And I do admit that yes, ambition is important. But I do wonder who gave you the idea that Slytherin House is the only one with admirable qualities."

Alarice knew. She knew full well the influence that Cygnus, and now Pollux, too, had on the girl. She already saw the way that the beliefs of the Black family were easing their way into Walburga's mind. Slow, yet steady and undeniable. Like poison.

Alarice herself was a pureblood, married into a respectable pureblood marriage, and raised her children to understand the importance of blood supremacy. She believed in it, but not with the maniacal obsessiveness that the Black family believed in _Toujours Pur_. She did not worship Salazar Slytherin, and she did not condone dark magic.

When Walburga told her what her mother had said regarding loyalty, Alarice didn't know if it was a sign that Irma could still see beyond the teachings of Slytherin, or if it was a sign that Irma had become consumed by it.

...

It was that spring, when Walburga turned seven and Alphard turned two, that Lossy the House Elf died.

She had been an old thing that just hobbled around doing house work, and really did no wrong. Pollux largely ignored her, Irma just ordered her around to do various tasks, Walburga spent much of her time running away from her when Lossy was supposed to be supervising her, and Alphard just laughed whenever the elf appeared or disappeared with a crack.

It had just been once that Lossy angered Pollux. It was a rather trivial matter, and the hit that sent the House Elf sprawled on the floor hadn't even been that hard.

No one thought much of it, just expecting Lossy to get up and apologize and beg and grovel as House Elves do.

Only she never did. Even that one hit had been too much for the poor, old creature.

Seconds passed, but there was no movement, no muttered apology, no breath. Only a broken body sprawled on the floor.

Walburga screamed.

Irma quickly led her out of the room, pursing her lips. Walburga first thought that her mother's displeasure was directed at her behavior, and so she calmed down, trying to force the image of Lossy out of her mind.

It was only when her mother muttered "Lossy was an old elf anyways; she served our family well, but it was time for her to go," and she noticed how Irma was rather cold to Pollux for a while that Walburga realized that it was not at her that her mother was vexed.

The family was quick with replacing Lossy; a new, much younger, House Elf by the name of Kreacher was there within days.

Still, it was a while before Walburga could look at the new one, or _that_ spot on the floor, without thinking of Lossy.

Or rather, Lossy's body. For it wasn't the House Elf as she was in life that Walburga remembered.

It was the _crack_ as her father's hand connected with Lossy, the _thump_ with which she fell to the floor, and the image of the tiny body lying on the ground at an odd angle.

And the silence.

 _AN: Just a quick note regarding Grimmauld Place and Kreacher. I know that in the books Walburga calls Grimmuald Place the house of her fathers, but 'fathers' could also refer to more distant ancestors. I believe that Grimmauld Place runs in the elder line, and will therefor come to Orion Black and, by an extent, Walburga. In this story, Kreacher is originally from Grimmauld Place, but seeing that his mother is still alive, they have no need for him and therefore send him to Black Residence when there is need for him there. He will later go back to Grimmauld Place with Walburga._


	8. Chapter 7

_Please review, and enjoy! All characters and places belong to the one and only JK Rowling._

 _ **Chapter 8**_

Kreacher the House Elf came from Grimmauld Place, a house which was owned by Grandfather Cygnus' older brother, Sirius Black. Walburga hated Kreacher, and, by default, Walburga also despised Grimmauld Place. Kreacher could not cook as well as Lossy had, in her opinion. Though both Pollux and Irma seemed perfectly satisfied with the new House Elf's cooking, Walburga had been so used to Lossy preparing the food that Kreacher's work, though good, was not quite suitable for her tastes. It just wasn't the same.

Kreacher also had a seemingly endless amount of energy that old Lossy hadn't. When Irma commanded him to keep an eye on Walburga, no amount of running about on her part could shake the House Elf off. It was really quite infuriating. There wasn't anything she really _did_ that she didn't want him to witness; it was the mere fact that he was always there.

The many times she tried to order him away, standing as tall as she could, chest puffed out and head held high, giving her best Black glare and using her most imperious voice (the fact that she was seven years old rather lessened the effect) to tell the House Elf that she was also his mistress and that he had to listen to her, Kreacher merely bowed and groveled, apologizing over and over and yet refusing to obey her, stating that he was under "orders from Mistress Irma to watch out for Young Mistress Walburga."

No amount of yelling or commanding could change the House Elf's mind. Even when she resorted to threats she had heard her father use, Kreacher refused to budge (the one time Irma had heard the things she said, Walburga got a severe scolding and told that "little girls should not say such things". Walburga didn't understand her mother's alarm, as she didn't quite understand the meaning of what she had said, but she decided to stick to simply trying to order Kreacher away in the near future).

She supposed that it all just meant that he was a loyal House Elf, but weren't they all? They were really just disgusting creatures that lived to serve their Masters, and wizards put up with their disgustingness in return for the House Elf's service.

It made sense.

Tiny little thin things, which huge ears and eyes, pinkish skin, squeaky voices, rags for clothes... the contrast between her family and the House Elves was jarring, and she couldn't help but wonder how they could live with themselves.

She hadn't had much exposure to others beyond her family, but the few times that she had accompanied her mother to Diagon Alley, she found that she was quick to judge others. It really wasn't something she meant to do, but she could always see it in her family's eyes, and so the habit stuck. She always left feeling very proud of her shiny black hair, striking grey eyes and aristocratic features.

There was also always a lingering sense of guilt, once the pride had receded. Weren't they all the same? Didn't they all think the same? Feel the same? But in the end, she reasoned herself out of it.

Nobody was the same. There were Purebloods and Half-Bloods and Mudbloods, and within the Purebloods there were blood-traitors and old pureblood families. There were witches and wizards and Squibs and Muggles and House Elves and other creatures, and in the end, none of them were the same.

How could they? She was just privileged; her name, her family, her wealth, her looks, her talent. First, she pitied those that were different. But then she thought of Marius, of Lossy, of Kreacher, of some of those people she saw at Diagon Alley, and disgust overcame her.

Was there even a reason for them? House Elves served witches and wizards, but those others creatures -Mudbloods, Muggles, Centaurs- had no use.

Of course, she hadn't ever seen them, but she had heard stories from Grandfather Cygnus of how they sought to destroy all the values that the old Pureblood families held dear. Of how they wanted to take over, how they were already seeping into the system and corrupting the government and the schools.

All in all Walburga didn't understand how that was allowed to happen; the House Elves were under control, eager to serve, groveling at their Master's feet; why weren't the others doing the same?

It was around her eighth birthday one year that she asked that question at the dinner table.

Silence.

Pollux had a small smirk on his face that showed that he was pleased; however, his silence proved that it was something he refused to speak of, at least not in front of his young daughter who could easily say the wrong thing to the wrong person without knowing.

Irma'a face turned white, yet her voice was strong when she spoke. "Not for now. Don't worry yourself over it, Walburga." She hesitated, and her voice shook slightly when she spoke again. "You never know what might happen one day. _Toujours Pur_."

Walburga nodded and dutifully went back to eating. Five-year-old Alphard hadn't looked too interested in the exchange to start with; though he had heard of it all, he never quite had the intense interest in such matters that Walburga did.

While she was captivated by Cygnus or Pollux's speeches, he preferred to stare out the window at the birds and the trees and the sky. While she held everyone she saw at Diagon Alley with a critical eye, he stared at it all with innocently wide, non-judging eyes.

To Walburga, it was of no matter. He had already showed plenty of signs of magic, and she chalked up his disinterest in blood supremacy to his young age. She had forgotten that she had already been irreversibly drawn to it by the time she had been his age.

Pollux didn't say a word in that entire conversation, but after dinner when Irma wasn't looking, he offered his young daughter one of his rare, small smiles. It filled her chest with warmth, and she felt more connected to him that night than she did to her mother, who had not been able to swallow another bite and sat there tensely, trying to control her breathing.

Walburga hadn't seen Irma like that in a while, and so it caught her by surprise when she heard her parents arguing later that night.

"She's barely eight!" She heard her mother snap. "When I was her age I was barely aware of this all, not making proclamations that the Mudbloods should be serving us!"

"Well, you were not a Black," her father responds, calm as ever. "And Walburga is smart; she knows her place in society."

"I don't care that you just called me an idiot, Pollux. I just care about what _my_ daughter is turning into."

"Irma, she is _our_ daughter. She is a Black!"

"She's not anymore a Black than she is mine," Irma spat. "You are turning her into a monster. You and your father both."

"And I do not care that you just called me a monster," Pollux said in a mockery of Irma's earlier statement, "but I do care about the lack of respect you show to _Toujours Pur_. You would do good to remember what it means."

"I know full well what it means," Irma said quietly. "Did you not hear me today at the table? Or that one night in the bed? I have done everything that you and your _family_ have asked me to do, and yet this is what I get in return."

"Return? In _return_? There is no return, Irma. We believe in it because it is the truth, and-"

"I am not speaking of blood purity anymore! I am speaking of my -of _our_ daughter. I am speaking of what you are turning her into! She is beyond a simple understanding of the matter. It is outright _lunacy_. And I hate it."

 _And I hate it._

That's what Irma had said.

 _And I hate it._

Her mother. Her own mother hated her.

Walburga didn't want to hear anymore. She whipped around, tears already gathering. She let them fall. What did it matter?

Her father never smiled at her. The one time he did was also the night that her mother proclaimed that she hated her.

Walburga thought back to something she had seen in Diagon Alley. A girl, looking to be about a year younger than herself. She had been with a man and a woman. Her parents.

A family.

The girl had been ugly as anything, and at the time, Walburga had thought scathingly of her. But now, it wasn't the girl's appearance that was at the forefront of her mind. It was the image of her father handing some candy to her, the image of her face lighting up in pure joy, the image of her jumping into his arms and hugging him, the image of him holding her tight and petting her hair, the image of the mother watching the scene in front of her laughing, the image of her looking adoringly at both her husband and daughter.

And for the first time ever, Walburga wished that she was that girl.

She was about to run, away from the door she had been listening through, away from her father who never smiled, away from her mother who hated her, when a croaky voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Young Mistress Walburga should be in bed at such a late hour."

It was Kreacher.

She had no energy to order him away; she merely dashed to the end of the hallway before collapsing at the corner, sobbing violently. She tried to keep quiet -she really did- but choked whimpers still escaped her lips, and her shoulders shook with the effort.

She looked up to see the House Elf standing in front of her -he had silently followed her- with more emotion on his face than she had ever seen. He looked slightly scared of her, and apologetic, but, at the same time, sad and pitying.

At any other time, she would have snapped at him to go away, snapped at anybody for pitying her, claiming that she was among the lucky. But now, she accepted it, even welcomed it. Walburga let Kreacher pet her shoulder, not even bothering to shudder as their skin made contact. She let him hush her and calm her, until she could stand, until she could make it back to her room. She let him escort her, let him tuck her into bed.

Despite all the malice that Walburga had shown him, it appeared that Kreacher really was the only one that truly cared about her.


	9. Chapter 8

_Thank you for all the reviews, especially FairyRave for pointing out my mistake. Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter; I promise that the next one shall be up very soon (this is the first time where this chapter will directly lead into the next). As always, enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review. All belongs to JK Rowling._

 ** _Chapter 8_**

In an unspoken act of peace, Walburga became more agreeable with Kreacher when it came to her lessons, which her mother was now insisting happen daily. It had been going on for a while now -even when Lossy had been alive- but more recently, the simple texts meant for children had changed into old records of the Black family, the basic penmanship had changed into practicing and perfecting an elaborate signature that would one day become her own.

She didn't know that other children in other families were still reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard. In her mind, though most of the things she read made no sense, they were much better than stories of a hopping pot or a cackling stump.

She was too old for those stories, or so she had been told. Besides, it made Father proud when she surprised him with a tidbit of Black family history she had just learned.

The only real children's story she had ever had any real interest in was the Fountain of Fair Fortune. Lossy had started reading it to her once, but, by some chance, Pollux had overheard and had snapped at her to stop immediately and never read from that book again.

Walburga had wondered for quite some while what had been in that story, but she hadn't been able to find the children's book and it wasn't like she could ask Lossy it find it for her. She had come to believe that the book had been thrown out, and she had quite forgotten the incident until she came across a mention of fountains in her reading.

This urged her to ask Kreacher to find the Tales of Beedle the Bard. It took the House Elf a while, seeing that the book had been buried under some other junk, but he eventually returned, the beat-up book in hand. Personally, Walburga was just happy that he had even managed to find it.

She grabbed it, muttering an absentminded "thanks," before realizing what she had just said.

She had just thanked Kreacher.

She, Walburga Black, had just thanked a House Elf.

She knew her family would have a fit if they found out, but what they didn't know couldn't possibly hurt them, just like her father wouldn't ever find out that she had gotten her hands on the book years after he banned her from ever hearing from it again.

Walburga decided not to dwell on it and instead delved into the book, quickly finding the story and skimming it through.

It seemed to be just another children's story to her; three witches, a magical fountain, trials to get to the fountain... she couldn't see what was in it that would anger her father such. She decided to ask Kreacher; surely he wouldn't even know that she wasn't supposed to be reading the book.

"Kreacher," she called, and the House Elf appeared with a crack.

"Young Mistress Walburga summoned?" He asked, bowing. She nodded, then handed him the book, open at the Fountain of Fair Fortune.

"Father once told me that this story contained something... something dark. I never read it but now I am and... what is it?"

If Kreacher didn't believe her story, he didn't say, and only began to quietly read. The House Elf stared at the story for the longest time, to the point that Walburga began to grow impatient.

"Well?" She asked. Finally, he looked up. "A marriage," he whispered. "A marriage that should never happen."

"What marriage?" She grabbed the book back, attempting to find what Kreacher spoke of. "Between Amata and Sir Luckless?"

The House Elf nodded. "Terrible thing it is. A marriage between a witch and..." he glanced around nervously. Walburga felt her temper rise, but quickly tamped it down and smiled. "And what? Come on Kreacher... no one will hear but me."

"A muggle," Kreacher finally said.

Walburga gasped, skimming over the story again. "Sir Luckless? But how? Why would Amata marry something like...that?"

"People do strange things. But Kreacher doesn't know, he is only a House Elf!"

"Because she's a blood traitor!" Walburga declared, casting the book down.

Kreacher quickly picked it up, ready to hand it back to her, but Walburga shook her head.

"Throw it away. Wait, no, burn it. I don't want Alphard to find that."

Kreacher bowed, before looking up curiously. "Is this the book that Young Mistress Walburga once told Kreacher that Master Pollux told her to never read?"

Walburga glanced up sharply, mind reeling. Had she mentioned it to him before? She didn't remember, but then again, she had been speaking quite a lot to the House Elf in the past several months.

Kreacher quickly shook his head, dropping the book and bashing his head against the nearest wall.

"Bad Kreacher!" She heard him muttering, before he turned and bowed low again. "Kreacher apologizes," he stuttered. "It's not Kreacher's business to go snooping in Young Mistress Walburga's life. Master Pollux never spoke to Kreacher of this, and so Kreacher shall not tell."

Walburga was half inclined to smile, but instead she just shrugged and dismissed the House Elf, who scurried away, book in hand.

...

It was the winter before Walburga's ninth birthday that she attended the 1933 Winter Ball at Grimmauld Place. Pollux had briefly explained to her that it was in honor of some ancestor that lived hundreds of years ago, but she only saw it as a big grand party looming ahead in the near future, with lots of strangers and lots of proper etiquette.

It was only to be the Black family, but from what she had heard, it was rather large and reached well beyond her parents, brother, grandparents and aunts. She had heard of Black Manor hosting even larger parties, now that Aunt Cassiopeia was at an age suitable to marry.

At any rate, Walburga still had no idea how important the event was, until earlier that afternoon Irma forced her into dark blue dress robes and shiny black shoes, pinned her hair up, and hung a small silver necklace around her neck.

It all felt rather uncomfortable, but when no one was looking, Walburga couldn't help but preen. That was, until she thought of how she must look like Grandmother Violetta, upon which she stopped immediately.

It took a bit more cajoling on Irma's part to get Alphard ready for the ball; he wasn't even seven, and so he didn't understand why he should want to dress up in uncomfortable dress robes, be paraded around as the perfect little son, silent until spoke to, invisible until wanted to be seen.

"Would it matter if I didn't go?" He asked Irma, to which she said nothing. Alphard huffed loudly. As soon as Irma was done making the finishing touches on him -brushing his hair, straightening his collar- he was off, probably to hide somewhere and leave the family scrambling to find him at the last minute.

"When are we going?" Walburga asked her mother, who shook her head and ran a hand through her hair. "I still need to get ready... now go and find your brother and Walburga don't ruin your hair," Irma yanked her daughter to her and roughly adjusted a pin. It pulled on Walburga's hair, but she chose not to say anything and dutifully went to find her brother once her mother was done with her.

She found him where he always hid at such times; inside the old and dusty wardrobe in one of the extra bedrooms. Their parents didn't know of this spot. It was Alphard's private little fort, and she kept the secret for him.

"Is it bad that I don't want to go?" He asked her in a small voice. "All they do is talk about stuff."

"I suppose that's what adults do," Walburga shrugged. She didn't climb in after him; though he never minded her talking to him from the outside, he never let her inside. She sometimes wondered what things Alphard kept stashed in there, but she knew better than to ask. It would most likely be some strange little harmless gadget anyways.

"Yeah, but the stuff they talk about is just...weird, you know?"

Walburga furrowed her eyebrows, even though she knew that her brother couldn't see her. "What do other families talk about?"

"A few weeks ago in Diagon Alley I heard a family talking about their favorite ice cream flavors."

"Why on earth would you want to talk about that?"

"I don't," Alphard quickly replied. "But I wan to talk about... different stuff."

"Then talk. I'm here."

Alphard popped his head out and shook his mop of black hair. "You don't get it."

"Get what!" Walburga was getting frustrated.

"That we're different. Everyone looks away when we come, and we don't laugh like others."

"Well, that just means that they're scared of us because we're better."

"I thought that we're normal, and _they're_ different."

Walburga shrugged. "It goes both ways, I guess."

"But which one's right?"

"Alphard, you know Mother and Father and Grandfather Cygnus would never lie to us!"

"I didn't say that," he said in a small voice, retreating back into the wardrobe.

"Alphard!"

No answer.

"Talk to Grandfather Cygnus tonight, if it's really bothering you."

"I wanted to talk to you," came the muffled voice.

"Well, I'm right here!" She exclaimed as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Silence.

"I'm sorry."

She didn't know what for.

"It's ok. You didn't do anything. I'm not mad."

"Alphard, please come out."

"I will. I'll come out before we have to leave so they don't get mad. I promise."

That was perfectly fine by Walburga. Alphard always kept his word.

...

Walburga had never quite given her parents looks much thought before, but that evening she saw what a striking couple they made. Irma's blond hair and light complexion complimented Pollux's dark looks well, and they both held themselves in a fashion that commanded respect; Pollux did so naturally, and Irma forced herself into the role so well that it didn't even look forced anymore.

Behind them, Alphard and her, miniature versions of their parents. That's how they entered Grimmauld Place, a family, because despite the fact that they were supposedly _all_ family, there was still an underlying tone of judgment, of competition, of pride.

And Grimmauld Place was the perfect setting.

When she first landed gracefully on the rug in front of the fireplace (it had taken Irma ages to teach her children that maneuver, all for this occasion) she was struck by how dark the place was. Fine enough yes, (as she traveled further into the house, she would find it to be exquisite) but there was an odd ringing silence that wouldn't leave her ears all night, no matter how loud the noise level was.

It was also cold, everywhere, no matter where she stood. Whether it was by the window or by the hearth, it was the same, bone-chilling cold that seemed to seep into her very soul.

No amount of light could quite shine through the darkness that seemed to envelop the place, folding all into its cold embrace, giving everyone an eery and haunted look.

It was terrible and beautiful, all at the same time, and Walburga's mind was left reeling. A part of her was silently screaming to leave, to run, to run and never look back. Another part of her was drawn to it, to the sense of danger and foreboding to it all, to the magic that seemed to almost shimmer in the faint light.

A dark and enchanting magic, one that she could not grasp, but she felt it, yes, she felt it

Pulsing...

 _Toujours Pur_

Moving...

 _Toujours Pur_

Poisonous...

 _Toujours Pur_

Enchanting...

 _Toujours Pur_

Dark...

 _Toujours Pur_

"Walburga," Irma's voice cut through it all. It broke the spell, and with it came clarity; she could think again, she could _feel._

Pollux seemed to have not noticed; he was peering further in, where voices could be heard drifting from the ballroom.

Somehow, she had not noticed them prior.

Her mother was looking at her, and she looked sad,

So, so sad,

But still, Irma was not spared from the darkness.

It enveloped her form, casting shadows on her face, distorting her to the point that she no longer looked like Walburga's mother, but like a dark enchantress; terrible, ancient, and powerful, yet beautiful.

Walburga held Alphard's hand as they made their way deeper into the house. He was obviously confused, creeped and chilled, but he still shone like he always did.

He still radiated that same energy, his face just a little clearer than everyone else's, his hair just a little lighter, not blending in and becoming one with the darkness as her and Pollux's hair did.

His eyes just a little less crazed.

And it brought Walburga peace and comfort, almost enough to keep her grounded, almost enough to block out the call of the darkness around her.

Almost.


End file.
